


you are the spark, you are the darkness

by the_rat_wins



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: American Horror Story-flavored AU, Ghosts, M/M, Major Character Death (before the story), Murder, Podfic Available, Underage!Derek, Violence, bottom!Derek, dark!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:12:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek Hale and his parents move to Beacon Hills, Stiles finally gets what he's been missing. </p><p>An American Horror Story-style AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are the spark, you are the darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This is the direct result of having watched the first series of American Horror Story in one sitting yesterday (wow, guys! What a show!), so there are many references, but should make sense even with no prior knowledge of AHS.
> 
> Derek is fifteen, and Stiles is a few years older.
> 
> Unbetaed, so feel free to point out any mistakes and I will gladly correct.
> 
>  **ETA:** The very talented [Jinxy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxy/pseuds/Jinxy) has recorded an absolutely beautiful [podfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/662271) of this!

"Wow," Stiles whispers. "Look at him. He's kinda . . . perfect."

"Slow down, Stilinski," Lydia says behind him. "You should probably try having a conversation with him first. Or at least let him get out of the car."

Stiles lets out a breath. "Right. Just . . . wow."

He can almost hear her rolling her eyes.

"Nice. Because you being in love went _so well_ for everybody last time." Then she's gone.

"Fair enough," he says, to himself, to anyone else who's hanging around. "But seriously. Wow."

***

Derek slouches down as far as possible into the backseat. This house looks like somewhere the freaking Addams family would live. Which, okay, secretly, he has to admit that he thinks it looks sort of awesome up close like this, when it’s not just a picture on the realtor's website. But he's not going to tell his parents that. He is making this move under protest, and they're going to know it every step of the way.

He can feel the ache of his bond with the pack, stretched beyond recognition all the way across the country, and it makes him want to howl. He stares out the window into the woods that surround the house, wishes he was shifted and running through them, running away, running back to New York, back to the rest of the pack.

"Well," says his father, "here it is." Derek scowls again. "C'mon, Derek, admit it. You love it, don't you?" 

"Why's it so big when it's just going to be us," he mutters, unwilling to give his father the satisfaction of hearing that what he wants to say (that he hates it and it's awful and they need to go home) is a lie. 

"Because Laura will need a room when she's on break from college," his mother says. "And because . . ." She breaks off, clears her throat. "And because we're going to need the space to start again. Here. With new people, new—"

"New family?" Derek grates out harshly. He hits the button on his seatbelt, jerks on the door handle to let himself out of the car. He can feel the anger rising to choke him. "I'm going to go look around the woods. I'll unpack my stuff later."

His parents say nothing, but he can feel them trading a worried glance. As he lets the door slam shut behind him and begins to run, the soft, wet dirt shifting under his sneakers, he thinks he can hear his mother choke back a sob. _Who cares, who cares, who cares._

The words settle into a mantra as he runs, pounding as fast as he can through the trees.

***

Stiles can hear the boy, Derek, crashing through the woods toward him. He's making no effort to be quiet, to avoid branches or underbrush. It just a rage-fueled sprint, no purpose, no destination. Derek is pure, animalistic frustration, hot anger bubbling up and heating the air around him.

 _Smolder_ , Stiles thinks, and laughs.

It gets so cold around here sometimes: Lydia's cutting remarks. Jackson's icy blue stare. The chilled edge of metal. He wants to stand behind Derek and feel the heat rising off his body. 

Derek and his angst are almost to the rock where Stiles is stretched out in the sun, a book in one hand and his knife resting close to the other.  Maybe Stiles arranges himself a little, makes sure a strip of skin between his jeans and his shirt is showing, lets his legs fall open. So what? A guy's allowed to try to make a good first impression.

And when Derek appears at the edge of the clearing, he does stop and stare. But then things go ever-so-slightly to shit.

"What are you doing?" he demands. "This is private property, you shouldn't be here."

 _Wow, what a charmer!_ Stiles sure can pick 'em. 

"If you're trying to play nice with the new kids on your first day," he says, "you're not doing a very good job." He sits up, stretches in a leisurely way, and lays his book down on the rock next to him. Then he finally lets himself look directly at Derek. It's just been glimpses till now, through the car window and as he took off into the woods.

Derek had apparently pulled his T-shirt off as he ran, and it's hanging loosely from one hand. Stiles tries not to let his eyes linger too long, but it's hard. Derek is staring back at him, and Stiles feels his breath catch for a second. His eyes flick upward, and he sees Derek swallow convulsively.

_Derek stripped to the waist and panting, staring up at him from dark sheets. The same unconscious swallow, and his eyes flutter shut as Stiles leans down._

"It's our property," Derek repeats, and maybe he's a little more breathless than before. "You can't be here."

"I was here first," says Stiles. "I'm not hurting anything."

Derek's eyes go to the knife next to his hand, and Stiles scoffs.

"C'mon, I know you just got here, but it should be pretty obvious that you don't want to wander around the woods without something to protect yourself. There's animals out here, you know. And who knows what kind of crazies." He grins, waggles his eyebrows meaningfully.

Clearly against his will, Derek gives an amused snort. Stiles pats the rock next to him. "So, are you going to play angry guard dog, or are you going to come say hi?"

Derek hesitates for another long moment, his blue-green eyes almost unnaturally wide as he stares at Stiles. Then, suddenly, all the tension leaves his shoulders, and with a shrug, he crosses the clearing and climbs up.

It's like being socked in the stomach, having Derek so close to him: the heat of his body, the scent of sweat from his run, the dampness as he licks his lips.

Getting hard right now would probably put them off to an awkward start. Stiles tries to calm down.

"What are you reading?"

Stiles runs a finger across the spine of the book. "It's a play," he says, "about two guys at the end of the world."

"Dark," Derek replies, mocking, and Stiles looks down, smiles a little.

"Not really. It's actually pretty funny."

"So what are you doing here." Derek's eyes are drilling into him again, but the tone is calmer.

"My mom died," Stiles says. "A couple years ago. She liked it out here, the sun on the rock, the wind through the leaves. I come here to think about her sometimes." All more or less true, although none of it is related to Derek's question.

"We just moved here," Derek replies after an uncomfortable second.

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock."

Derek opens his mouth angrily to retort, but Stiles cuts him off.

"Why here? Nobody's lived in this house for years." Also totally true.

Those piercing eyes finally look away, drop to the ground, and Derek mumbles, "Back in New York, my dad, he did . . . something wrong. It's kind of hard to explain if you're not . . . But we had to leave the rest of our family, and now we're here. For now."

"Hmm," says Stiles. Another awkward pause.

"I'm Derek." Silence as he waits for Stiles to reciprocate. "Who are you?" he demands impatiently after a second.

"Stiles. I've been here for a while."

"Okay." Derek is shifting uncomfortably. "See you around, I guess," he finishes as he slides off the rock, avoiding Stiles's stare. 

"Bye," Stiles says softly, and he watches him disappear back into the woods.

***

Derek runs even harder now, farther out into the trees. He can still hear his parents in the distance, and he wants to be out of earshot, out of range, just gone. 

Something else besides his anger from before is strumming through him now, pumping around his body. An insistent hum of frustration. 

He makes a low noise, and reaches down to palm himself as he runs. In his mind he can see the face of the guy from the clearing— _Styles? Stiles? What the hell kind of name is that, anyway?—_ and the warm light-brown of his eyes, and his mouth, open and soft, like it's still right in front of him, inches away.

 _What the fuck, what the fuck_ , he knows he's fifteen, but this is ridiculous. He's about five seconds from just dropping to his knees and jacking off on the forest floor.

And once he thinks about it, he can't stop himself. He goes down, panting, and fumbles frantically at his jeans for a few seconds before getting them open, wrapping a hand around himself, and he's so unbelievably hard, leaking precome like he's been playing with himself, but he hasn't, and _oh god._

He sobs a little, no tears, but it’s so good it  almost hurts, and he comes onto the ground in front of him. He gasps for one long second, then flops over and onto his side, like his strings have been cut.

"What the fuck," he whispers. 

***

They're down in the basement, near the cells, listening to the Hales move in. Stiles is stretched out on the floor, and Lydia is lying on a bench above him, her eyes closed, running her fingers through Jackson's hair as he leans back against her.

He's glaring at Stiles, but what else is new.

"You're an idiot," she says, without opening her eyes. "You were then, and you are now."

"Shut up," Stiles says, mulishly. He's throwing his knife up into one of the wooden beams of the ceiling, just hard enough that it will drop back into his hand and he can do it all over again.

"Seriously, what do you think this is going to change? Is it going to make you feel better?"

"Maybe." God, he wishes she would shut up sometimes. He throws the knife with a little more force, and it sticks in the beam.

"And how exactly do you think this is going to end, Stiles? Hm? Is he going to leave his family for you? Is he going to _die_ for you? Is he going to _love you_?"

"Shut up," he says again, and when the knife drops back into his hand, he sits up, reaches over, pulls back on her gorgeous hair, and slits her throat. She dies gurgling.

"You know, Lydia, most of the time, I wish I'd cut _your_ tongue out, too," he informs her, lying back down.

From his place at her feet, Jackson sneers. The drip of blood from Lydia's throat slows, then finally stops. 

"Doesn't change the fact that you're an idiot," she says, when her vocal chords have healed.

"Yeah," he says.

His knife hits the wooden beam. _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

***

Derek had been home-schooled in New York, where there were enough kids in the pack and enough people willing to teach them that it made sense. In some ways, public school is as bad as he was expecting. In other ways, it’s even worse. 

The kids are mostly snotty, and those who might have been tolerable company are happy with the friends they have, and not about to go out on a limb to make his acquaintance, which suits Derek fine. Fewer people to have to pretend to be friendly and normal around.

But there is one teacher who almost makes it all worth it. Ms. Argent is clever and snarky and doesn’t take shit from any of the students. She makes him want to pay attention. To English. Right now she’s teaching them the play that Stiles had been reading in the woods that day, and he was right. It’s pretty funny.

And sure, Derek is fifteen. There are nights when he remembers the way Ms. Argent ( _Kate_ ) leans over his shoulder to point something out in the text they’re reading, her breast so close to his arm that he can feel her body heat, and he imagines her pressing just that little bit closer. Even though that is all kinds of screwed up, not to mention, like, illegal.

But most nights, his mind is somewhere else entirely, because after that first afternoon in the woods, it seems like Stiles is everywhere. Derek has no idea how he does it, because he should be able to hear every move that Stiles makes. But Stiles appears behind him without warning so many times that he eventually stops even thinking it’s weird. If he’s on a run in the woods, or if his parents are out somewhere, he can more or less count on Stiles showing up. 

And Stiles, it turns out, is _awesome_.

He went to Beacon Hills High, too, and commiserates with Derek about how awful it is (apparently Stiles wasn’t popular, which, whatever. Stiles is, as previously stated, awesome, so clearly Beacon Hills residents are all morons.) 

And when Derek feels like he’s going to scream with how much he misses the pack, Stiles listens to him shout and rage about his father, about California’s stupid lack of weather, about . . . life. And how much it truly sucks sometimes. Then he’ll smile this wry little smile that says Stiles knows exactly what he’s talking about, and he’ll make some observation or joke that will make Derek want to smile, too, and it’s just. Awesome.

The first time Stiles (finally, _finally_ , Derek’s been thinking about this ever since that first day, when he had to run off into the woods to _touch himself_ because he wanted Stiles so much) leans in to kiss him, Derek realizes that he doesn’t actually know how old Stiles is. So maybe this is illegal, too. 

He doesn’t really care, though, because Stiles’s mouth is just as soft and sweet as it looks. And Stiles is willing to do way more than just kiss with it.

*** 

Derek is everything Stiles was hoping. No. He’s better. 

He tries his best to take it slow, to just _be there_ for Derek in a way he obviously needs. Stiles doesn’t know what the hell is up with his weird-ass family, but it’s clearly messing with Derek's head in a pretty profound way. And Stiles just wants to make that shit stop, because he remembers, back before his mom got sick, back before his dad—he remembers what family is supposed to do. It’s supposed to keep you safe, to make you happy. If you love someone, you should never, ever hurt them. And Derek’s family isn’t doing a very good job of that at all.

But Stiles can. 

And the first time he can’t hold himself back anymore, can’t stop himself from putting a hand around Derek’s arm, pulling his body in closer, putting his _mouth_ . . . Derek is happy. So fucking happy. He rubs up eagerly against Stiles, all that heat, and it’s so good he almost can’t stop, just wants to go again and again and again.

Lydia likes to heckle him when she catches them, but she can get over it. Because Derek, Derek is forever. And sure, maybe Stiles used to think Lydia would be forever, but this is different. This is real.

She’s just jealous, probably. He doesn’t know why. She’s got Jackson forever, doesn’t she? Just like she wanted. Can’t Stiles have what he wants, for once? Just this _one goddamn time_?

So, he starts to get comfortable. He shows up around Derek’s parents more, and that’s definitely a mistake. 

***

"It's just that he's over here a lot,” his mom says. “Like, _a lot_. I'm not even sure how he gets in half the time. And he's a few years older than you. I just don't want you to ever feel like he's . . . I don't know, honey." She sits down next to him, cups a hand to his cheek. "Like he's pressuring you, or—"

Derek knocks her hand away and glares. "God, Mom, what the hell are you talking about. It's not even like that with us."

It's totally like that with them. He knows the only reason his heartbeat stayed steady over that sentence is that Stiles has never pressured him for anything. He’s never done anything except put his hands and his mouth and his dick exactly where Derek is aching for them. 

"My mom thinks we spend too much time together," he says.

"Hmm," says Stiles, pretending to think as he slides slowly back into Derek, who can't help but grind against him, trying to get him inside faster. "I'm finding it difficult to imagine what 'too much time' with you would look like, but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be anything like this. This feels like . . . just the right amount of time."

"Yeah," Derek pants. He can feel a drip of precome welling up, where he’s rock-hard and untouched against his own stomach. Oh god, could he come just from this? The weight and pressure of Stiles in him? "Just the right . . . _oh god_."

“You’re mine,” Stiles whispers into the back of his neck,  an open-mouthed kiss against his skin every time he says it. “You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.”

***

But that’s not the only mistake he makes.

***

“ _Who’s_ coming by to look at the house?” Stiles asks. Derek is calling from his cell phone, and sometimes cell phones don’t react all that well when Stiles is on the other end.

“Ms. Argent, my English teacher. She’s doing some weird historical piece for her master’s degree, and she said something about the history of the house—look, Stiles, I wasn’t really listening, I just said yes to make her shut up and stop touching my arm. And I forgot I have baseball practice. Can you just show her whatever she needs to see and then kick her crazy ass out?” 

“Sure,” Stiles says, quietly.

“Thank you! So fucking much! She gives me the creeps.” Derek pauses, probably looking to see if there’s anyone who might overhear. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is low and intimate, the same way he sounds when Stiles is inside him. “I love you.”

Stiles closes his eyes. “I love you, too,” he breathes back.

Yeah, he can guess what Kate motherfucking _Argent_ wants with this house. It's because of him. She knows, or at least she suspects. And that's why she’s been trying to get close to Derek, _touching him_.

Stiles screams so loudly that one of the upstairs windows breaks. Whoops. Should probably clean that up before _Ms. Argent_ gets here.

***

When she arrives, he makes sure the front door is open enough that she can just push her way inside. 

“Hello?” she calls out. “Derek said his friend was going to be here? Anybody home?” 

He can see the outline of the big containers she’s carrying in her backpack, gasoline and lighter fluid, probably. He wonders what her original plan for incapacitating Derek was, but he thinks he knows. If he hadn’t been planning on killing her anyway, _that_ thought definitely does it. 

She makes her way down into the basement, because everyone and their mother knows that it happened in the basement, and he follows, knife in hand. Lydia and Jackson are down there, watching her silently as she unzips the backpack. Would what she’s planning on doing set them free? Do even they care? Allison and Scott might, but he’s never seen them, so. Who knows.

_(He’d wanted to leave Scott out of it. Scott was family, Scott would never have hurt him, just like his dad would never—but Allison saw Lydia, and when Scott saw Allison . . .)_

“Fucking _Argents_ ,” Stiles hisses, as he comes up behind Kate and opens up her stomach with his knife. “He’s mine, and you bitches _can’t fucking have him_.”

Stomach wounds kill relatively slowly. Sepsis and shock. He makes sure she dies off the property, because there is no way in hell he’s spending his afterlife with Kate Argent. The role of “sassy deceased femme fatale” in this haunted house is filled to perfection by one Lydia Martin, and they are _not_ auditioning understudies. 

*** 

When Derek finally comes back, late after a grueling practice, Stiles is all over him so fast, he not only forgets to ask how Kate’s visit went, he pretty much forgets that she ever existed. Her, or anyone else, honestly.

"You're everything I ever wanted," Stiles whispers as he works his way into Derek. He's slick and hard, and it hurts, but it’s good. He runs his fingers down Derek's back, traces where they're joined together, where Derek's skin is hot and stretched. "Why couldn't you have gotten here sooner?"

Derek huffs out a laugh, gasping a little under Stiles's thrusts. "Got here as soon as I could."

"Wasn't soon enough," Stiles says quietly, and Derek starts to smile, god, such a stupidly romantic thing to say, it's so . . . _Stiles_. But Stiles isn't smiling, isn't giddy with his love for Derek. He's angry. Angry and sad.

Derek clenches around him, trying to get him closer, to make him feel how real they are, how good this is. "Well, I'm not going anywhere now."

"Nope," says Stiles, and there's his smile, bright and beautiful. Derek can hear it in his voice. "Not if I can help it." And Derek shudders underneath him, warm and safe.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] You Are The Spark, You Are The Darkness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/662271) by [Jinxy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxy/pseuds/Jinxy)




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